The Name
by YeahCapes
Summary: She needed to get used to that name again. The one she thought she would never get another chance to say
1. The Name

**Author's Note: I'm a bit rusty, but with August's recent return to Once Upon a Time, I've had about a million ideas running through my head. This is one of them. We haven't gotten a proper scene of Emma and August talking about what happened, so this is how I imagine it could possibly have gone.**

August. _August. _**August**. Emma had been saying his name in her head continuously for the past hour. She needed to get used to that name again. The one she thought she would never get another chance to say. The one that had been so hastily replaced with just Pinocchio. The one that belonged to a man who had helped her see the light, only to disappear, in the cruelest of ways.

"Emma." Emma? No, _Aug-_ "Emma?" She looked over to her bed, where the man with the name she had missed so much was laying. He smiled, with that confident grin that sometimes seemed to hold his whole face together. "So, tell me again. How much did you miss me?"

The two hadn't had much chance to talk after the rescue. And already he was himself, teasing her. Oh, how she had missed the teasing. Not that she would admit it.

"I don't recall telling you a first time." She crossed her arms in front of her chest and took a couple of steps forward and tried to suppress a smile. Looking down at August as she drew closer, she noticed a fleeting look pass across his face. The grin was gone. He hadn't responded quickly, as was his usual way. Emma waited. Nothing came.

"Okay," she relented. "I did miss you. A lot. Real friends aren't easy to come by around here, ya know. And I'm not the best at making them. I'm glad you're back; I really am."

"Oh of course. That must be why you never visited young Pinocchio." August said matter-of-factly.

He was pouting like a child. Like the child he had been only a few days before. Emma could see through his ruse, knew he was only joking with her, but… there was something in those eyes of his. And suddenly she felt very guilty.

"August—"

"Emma, I'm only kidding. I didn't mean to make you feel bad," he responded quickly, catching on to the emotion emanating from the woman who stood before him.

"I know," she sighed. "But I feel bad nonetheless. I'm sorry I never visited you, not until Regina… It was too hard. After the shock of that day and you getting a second chance, I had time to think about what had _really_ occurred. The idea of the man I knew becoming seven years old again is pretty strange, even for Storybrooke. I didn't think I could handle it."

"I don't blame you. And, it's not like the boy _knew_ my life as August. I wasn't upset about it. You visiting me wouldn't have done anything."

"I just feel like I abandoned you."

Her words stung. After everything, _she_ was the one who felt like she had abandoned _him._

"Emma. You are not the one in this room who needs to feel bad about anything that has happened. I was the one who did you wrong for 28 years. For that, I am truly sorry. I'm going to spend the next 28 and beyond trying to make it up to you."

He meant it. Sure, he was still constantly tempted. He wasn't perfect. Sometimes August thought he was more human than actual, real humans, with all of the very human mistakes he'd made. There were many people he wanted to make things right with, but especially Emma. In all of his rush to make her believe, in all of the time he spent hiding out of guilt, August had never really gotten the chance to apologize. Helping her to believe and giving her information about the author was not nearly enough to make up for his mistakes. But, for now, he figured it could be a start.

"August?"

"Mmm?" He looked up at Emma, realizing just how long he'd been silent, lost in his thoughts. Had she said something?

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"I'd like to think the inner-workings of my mind are worth more than a cent," he grinned.

"Very funny. What's going on with you?"

_Besides the fact that I was just kidnapped as a child, turned back into myself, and tortured?_

"August?"

_Oh not much. _

"...August."

_Except that I'm-_

"August."

"I know my name is fantastic, but I'm sure you know other words."

"Stop being a smart alec. You know of all people to hide things from, I'm probably the worst choice, right? I'm your friend; I want to help."

Of course he knew it would be impossible to hide anything from Emma. Her superpower was the antithesis to his second-natured lying. And he was glad, for he didn't want to fall back down into his old ways, but… there were some things he just wasn't ready to talk about yet. Or maybe ever.

"I know you do. But we have bigger things to focus on right now. Don't worry about what's going on up here," he said, pointing to his head, "Just worry about what I can do to help _you_."

Emma sighed. He was right. Again. This wasn't worth arguing over right now. But the moment August was well enough to take care of himself, the grilling would begin.

"Okay," she said, looking back at August. For a moment, she wasn't sure if he'd heard her - he had leaned back down and was looking straight up at the ceiling. Emma could tell he was dozing off, and suddenly she felt a little guilty for pestering him so much after all he'd just been through. "Just, get some rest for now… August."


	2. Not Lies, But Stories

**A/N: I love the dynamic of August and Emma, and there isn't nearly enough of them together on the show, so I couldn't resist continuing this story. I don't know how long it'll be, but I do have more that I plan to add. This chapter is sort of filler, but I really enjoyed writing it. Hope you enjoy!**

August Wayne Booth was a story. From the name, to his lies, to the idea that he was no longer made from wood. He was not human in the conventional sense; he was not actually born of human parents, he did not contain any hereditary genes or traits. August was created, new and beautiful. But he was not _born_. Yet, of every person in every tiny corner of Storybrooke, he was still the most human of them all.

Everything about him, every quality and emotion and action was human, exaggerated. He could play the living game so well that sometimes he genuinely forgot his unusual past. The temptations of the world called to him, and he answered. He made mistakes, learned from some of them, and then made some more. He stumbled through life pretending that he knew what he was doing, when in reality, inside, he was still that scared young boy who had been thrust into a strange, new world he never should have entered. His emotions and his instincts were strong, while his head did less decision-making than he led others to believe.

But making people believe was his specialty. From the moment he stepped out of that tree and carried Emma to the road, storytelling became his main language. How else was he supposed to survive? How else was he supposed to help baby Emma survive? He had been smart enough to know that things were different here. Smart enough to know that the truth would get him in trouble. Smart enough to know that his lies could not hurt him in the world without magic. Young enough, naive enough to convince himself that they were not lies, but stories. Bended truths. Exaggerated truths. Delayed truths.

It became a coping mechanism and a defense for August to spin a tale to keep himself from harm. His will to live and his fear drove his actions. It did not take long for August to become a professional storyteller. At least, that was how he liked to see himself.

Story was such a nice word. Pleasant. Compelling. Persuasive. No one likes to be deceived. But people enjoy listening to stories. As of late, though, he had run out of stories to tell. And he had run out of the arrogance that would allow him to disguise his lies in such a way. Plus, he knew that Emma had no interest in whatever tale he might be able to weave. She could see through him.

He had chosen, probably _the_ worst person to try and fool.

"August, I know I promised not to bug you, but I'm worried. If you're still feeling sick, I'll contact Blue for you." Emma's eyes were full of genuine concern as she spoke, and August knew he didn't deserve it.

"I can't… it's nothing Emma, okay?" He hoped the desperation in his voice would allow her to drop the subject.

"August, it isn't nothing. You know that I don't need to see your nose grow to be able to tell when you're lying."

_You can tell when _everyone_ is lying._ He thought. _Why is it so important to interrogate _me_? Why can't I just tell you the truth? Why are you so damn intimidating all of a sudden?_

Emma's icy stare softened suddenly. It was as though she could see the internal struggle he was having. Not that it was too hard - he stood before her with a conflicted look on his face. She took a breath.

"Okay. Look, I'm sorry for pestering you about it. I guess I don't need to know every detail of your life, I just… I don't know. I had the feeling it had something to do with me and I got worried."

"Emma, you have nothing to be worried about with me when it comes to you."

"So it has nothing to do with me?" She hoped with the question that she could weasel her way into August's thoughts.

He paused for a moment, trying to find the words. _Don't fail me now._

"It is not anything you should be worried about."

"That did not answer my question," she raised her brows. "What do you know about me that I don't?"

"I know," August sighed, "that you're not going to stop bugging me until you get what you want. Seriously though, can you give the third-degree a rest for perhaps, a day?"

"I don't know. Can't make you any promises, Woody."

"Oh God, please don't call me that."

"Why not, partner? I'll stop when you talk to me."

"Emma, come on."

"What, is there a snake in your boot or somethin'?"

August smirked, feeling like himself again for a moment, "Not in my b-"

He was interrupted by the door opening.

"My boy!" He heard. August would know that voice anywhere.

"Papa," he managed to choke out. Suddenly he could feel tears in his eyes. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he wanted to explain. So much to apologize for. Any words he could gather disappeared, though, as his father hugged him. "_Papa_."


End file.
